


Even

by JHsgf82



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHsgf82/pseuds/JHsgf82
Summary: (AU) Katniss leads Peeta into the woods one day with a plan to get revenge on him for embarrassing her.  Response to the drabble prompt:  Oh, did I scare you, big boy?
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	Even

It’s a crisp fall day on which I’m leading my best friend into my favorite woods. Trekking along, I take a deep inhale of the earthy air surrounding me. The woods smell amazing, and I even catch a faint whiff of burning off in the distance‒that’s a great smell, too. This is my favorite place in the world to be.

I suggested my best friend join me for some archery, said I’d teach him. And it made sense, considering my old hunting partner, Gale, has moved away, and Peeta is my best friend. He’s as close to me as a brother but with less of the annoyance factor. So, why shouldn’t he take up an interest of mine? I did let him try to teach me to bake. He knows I don’t like doing things I’m not good at, but I gave it a shot, for him. As expected, it was a disaster on my part, but I can’t say it was all bad; we had fun.

Peeta and I are as different as nightlock and juneberries, me being the poisonous ones. But then again, no. At least those vaguely resemble one another, whereas Peeta and I look nothing alike: I’m olive-skinned, dark-haired, and snarky; he’s pale, blond, and sweet. We don’t have much in common, either. He wrestles. He bakes. I hunt. But somehow, we’ve always been connected; we understand one another, better than most.

Peeta was more than happy to oblige my sudden whim to turn him into an archer and follow me blindly into the wilderness. Perhaps he’s returning the favor after the baking lesson gone awry, but then again, Peeta’s never been able to say no to me on anything. Knowing this, I almost feel bad, considering it’s all pretense…

Almost. That is until I remember how this all started and what he did to deserve this little payback…

***

While casually hanging out one Sunday, Peeta suggests we wrestle. And I’m completely taken aback. He goes on to explain that this one maneuver has been giving him trouble and asks me to practice it with him.

‘Why me?’ is my first thought. Couldn’t he work on it with one of his teammates? I think sometimes he forgets I’m a girl (and not on the wrestling team), but I’m no girly-girl and definitely not one to back down from a challenge‒and he is challenging me; he’s even got this little smirk on his lips as if he expects me to say ‘no.’ I’m not sure whether it’s this expression that convinces me or what comes next, his puppy look, combined with a simple, “Please, Katniss?”

How can I say no to that?

What’s the worst that could happen?

His smile nearly splits his face when I hesitantly agree, and he leaps up from his spot on the couch where we’d been watching videos together. I don’t hop up right away, so he gently tugs me by the arm, and he leads me to his exercise room, over to a large, black mat. There, he sits and starts taking off his socks. He says it’s for better traction, and after a moment, I follow suit.

Peeta stands and watches me finish removing my socks; then, he extends his hand to help me up. We face each other.

“Well, Everdeen, think you can take me?”

Peeta knows full well I could never take him in wrestling‒in other things, yes, like marksmanship or eating certain foods I love, such as cheese buns‒but he gets a little competitive.

Thing is, I’m competitive, too.

“Oh, I think so,” I say confidently, knowing I’m surely a goner. “But what about you?” I toss my braid back haughtily. “Shouldn’t you put on a jockstrap or something?”

He lets out a throaty laugh. “Nah. Just keep it clean, Everdeen. No going for that…,” he raises a brow, “area.”

I smirk, and Peeta moves us into position.

Having seen Peeta wrestle in competitions before, I kind of know the beginning stance, but he instructs me on what to do, anyway. He tells me about the neutral position and the penetration step; he tosses out a few other terms as well as the name of the maneuver he’s working on‒why do they all sound either dirty or torturous? And then, he suggests that maybe after this we can try the referee’s position. He blushes a little as he explains it involves one wrestler being on top and the other on bottom.

“Uh, let’s just see how this goes,” I say, fighting the growing heat in my own cheeks.

“Okay.” He nods.

Peeta guides me to place my hands on his biceps, which I can’t get them all the way around while he does the same to me, only he can completely encase my smaller muscles with his long, thick fingers. Then he touches his forehead to mine.

It’s strange being this close, feeling the pressure of his forehead against mine and his warm breath on my lips. But I do love his blue eyes and his long, golden eyelashes, and it’s nice getting a better look at them. I stare into those mesmerizing eyes, noticing they’re a bit darker than usual, and for a moment, I allow myself to fall into them.

“Ready?” he finally asks, breaking my little trance.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.

“Then, let’s have a clean match.” He gives me a little smile before turning serious.

And we go…

Peeta leads the way, to the right, and we spin around a couple of times slowly. He doesn’t try to overpower me right away, as I expected, just keeps holding onto me, staring into my eyes, and all I can do is stare back. It’s kind of like dancing, yet not at all. This is definitely the weirdest time I’ve ever spent with him…

The spinning continues, and I lose track of how many times we go around together, wondering when he’ll make his move. My head starts feeling fuzzy as if I’m experiencing the initial effects of a tracker jacker sting. Maybe that’s his plan: to lull me into complacency while getting me so dizzy I fall over on my own, and he wins by default.

“I’ve never done this before,” I stupidly admit, just to break the tension of our stare off and distract myself from the desire to hurl. And, well, of course, I haven’t. I don’t even know what we’re doing right now…

My words seem to snap him out of whatever was going through his head, and the sass is back. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle, sweetheart.” And damn it all if he doesn’t wink at me.

Suddenly feeling like myself again, I get the urge to smack him, but my hands are currently locked around his biceps. I don’t want to let go or lose my concentration, so I shoot back with, “Don’t you dare.” I cringe at how wrong this conversation sounds and inadvertently shake my head against his.

“Everything okay?” he asks. He’s slowed down and is staring less intensely, more innocently into my eyes.

“Yeah. Fine,” I say. But suddenly, I’m nervous. I know he’s going to try to pin me, and I tell myself it’s no big deal. It’s just Peeta, my pal, Peeta…and Peeta would never hurt me. But that’s not really what I’m concerned about.

Refocusing, I grip his arms harder. “Well, come on. What are you waiting for?”

This time, Peeta takes the initiative.

I thought I was ready for it, but I’m not, and in a split-second, Peeta’s gone for my leg, sweeping it out from under me. I feel air then his strong forearm snaking around me. My breath catches in my throat, and he has me on my back in seconds. The odd thing is, I barely feel it. I’m a leaf, no, a feather, fluttering to the ground.

Peeta’s managed to guide me gently to the floor, something I know he doesn’t do with his opponents. He always just lets them slam against the mat. Of course, wrestlers are not apt to cushion the fall of their opponents. He straddles me now, his thighs trapping my body, his pelvis pressing against mine. He’s supporting his weight so as not to crush me, yet he has me completely immobile.

I can’t move; I feel like helpless prey, which should completely unnerve me, but somehow, it doesn’t. With one arm over my head and Peeta’s powerful elbow locking it in place, the position is awkward, but I don’t mind the feel of his body against mine; in fact, I like it, a lot. His cheek is pressed lightly against mine, too. I can feel the scratch of the stubble that’s grown in there, but I don’t mind that, either. And he’s warm, so warm.

Peeta turns his head slightly to look at my face, and he’s smiling. “I think I got it,” he proudly pronounces.

“Yeah, I think so, too,” I say, a little breathily.

“Are you okay?” he rasps.

“Yeah.”

Peeta loosens his hold on me but doesn’t move to get off. Instead, he practically gazes into my eyes as he does something so tender I can’t believe it’s directed at me‒with both hands, he reaches out to smooth back my wild hair that’s splayed across the mat. My heart flutters then pounds, and I’m sure he feels it because our chests are flush against each other.

Oh, God. I need to calm down.

Flustered, I wriggle around, hoping Peeta takes the hint and lets me up. He does, apologizing. This time, I refuse his proffered hand and stand on my own. And immediately, I take a couple of steps back from him.

The look of desperate mortification on his face is shattering. “Katniss, I-I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, I’m f-fine,” I stammer. I can’t keep looking at him, so I turn away.

“Katniss, did I do something…?”

Surely, he must think I’m mad at him. And I kind of am, just not for the reason he’s probably thinking.

I shake my head because I don’t want to discuss it further. “No. That was, uh, good,” I manage. And then, I hurriedly tell him I need to go.

Shocked and dismayed by my reaction to Peeta pinning me, I rush out of his home. It just makes no sense. We’ve hugged plenty of times; I’ve lain with my head in his lap while he played with my hair; I’ve even fallen asleep against his chest on nights when I’d had a nightmare or a particularly tough day and just needed a good friend to…well, cuddle with. But this…this was different.

My head’s a tangled nest of thoughts as I lie in bed that night, and I can’t help worrying that maybe there’s something more to my feelings for Peeta, ones I know are loving but have always been purely platonic.

I avoid him for several days after that, although he tries and tries to contact me. Finally, we smooth things over, and by smooth, I mean sweep it under the rug. I make up a believable excuse for running out like that, and he buys it or at least pretends to, and things go back to normal. But not really. Something is different now. I feel different. And I need to do something about it…

***

Several days later, we’re in the woods, my braid swinging to and fro, thumping lightly against the back of my father’s old leather hunting jacket. Peeta trudges along after me, crunching leaves, snapping twigs, and generally, making a ton of noise. In hindsight, I don’t think I can ever take him hunting, so it might have to be one of my solitary activities, not that I mind a little solitude now and then.

We can’t do everything together, after all, even though we hate being separated. He has his things, same as I have mine, and that’s perfectly normal. I can’t say I’m going to be frosting cupcakes with him on Saturday nights or watching baking shows on TV; although, I have done the latter because Peeta just loves to share with me.

I adjust the strap of my quiver and lead him off the beaten path and into the middle of the forest. Being the gentleman he is, Peeta has offered to take my bow for me, though he should’ve known I’d never hand it over. It was my father’s, and not even Peeta touches that. I let him carry the bale, though.

When Peeta asks me for the second time, like a little kid, if we’re almost there yet, I shoot him a death glare over my shoulder. His mouth snaps shut like a trap, and I have to admit his expression is too cute for words. I can never stay annoyed with him for long.

I toss my braid over my shoulder, and we venture deeper into the woods.

Finally, I stop, deciding we’ve gone far enough. “This looks like a good spot,” I say, placing my free hand on my hip and scanning the area for a good tree. I see one about 15 yards away.

“Where do you want the target, Katniss?” Peeta asks.

I point to the massive oak. “There.” I motion for him, and we walk over together. With a relieved sigh, Peeta sets down the legged target. The corner of my lip twitching, I eye him. The guy is a wrestler, strong as an ox, yet he seems winded from carrying a foam and cardboard target on a little stroll through the woods.

I focus on said target, scanning the black, blue, red, and yellow of the bullseye. “Hmm…” I tap my chin as my eyes flit back and forth between him and it. “I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“You don’t want to do archery?” He’s patient, but I can practically hear the internal groan for making him come all this way for nothing.

It wasn’t for nothing. My revenge will be a little more than a long walk…

“Oh, I do…” I pause dramatically, “But I want you to be my target.”

Peeta’s blue eyes widen, and his strong jaw drops. “Come again?” he asks after bringing up the slack.

“You heard me. Now, stand against the tree, Peeta.”

Peeta studies my face, for any sign I’m joking, I assume. I stare back at him, doing my best to keep my expression hard and unwavering. He knows me well enough, yes, but I do have a good poker face.

“Katniss,” he hisses, “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I am. Don’t I look it?”

This was, of course, all part of my plan. And my plan is quite brilliant if I do say so myself. I love Peeta, as any best friend does, but last week, he completely humiliated me. Thinking about it gets me furious all over again.

He had me completely flustered and feeling things I’ve never felt for another guy, let alone my best friend, who I definitely shouldn’t be feeling those kinds of things about. But what annoyed me even more than my reaction was Peeta’s apparent lack of one. He seemed to feel absolutely nothing being in that position with me. And as he shouldn’t. It’s me who has the problem here…

I roll my eyes and release a small sigh out of his sight as I move the bale aside. I’ve been told I can be a vengeful person, but I truly believe he has this coming; he deserves a little scare.

I move to stand in front of him; his back is facing the tree, and I place a hand firmly against his broad chest. His heart is beating kind of fast, and I admit, mine starts to match its pace. Damn, even an innocent touch like this does something to me now. What sort of spell did he put on me when we wrestled?

I ignore it and give him a little shove. Automatically, he steps back, and I push him up against the tree, his back lightly slamming into the bark. For added measure, I pull the shiny, red apple I brought out of my jacket pocket. I hold it up to present to him before placing it atop his golden head. “Hold still,” I say.

Immediately, he knows my intent. “Uh, Katniss, I-I know you’re a good shot, but do you think…?”

My piercing gaze silences him. I spin around and tramp off, bow gripped firmly in hand.

He doesn’t know I’m a good shot, I think as I walk away. He’s heard of my prowess and knows I go shooting and hunting all the time, but he’s never seen it with his own eyes. Personally, I would have to see it.

After only several paces, I falter, and I turn back around to face him. Peeta looks a little confused by all of this, and as he should be. I wonder if he thinks I’m bluffing, but I seem to have him convinced I’m not. He also appears concerned, but knowing him, his concern is probably for me rather than his own fate. He must think I’ve lost my mind.

“Are you afraid?” I ask.

“No,” he asserts. He grips the bark of the tree like a lifeline, and he’s a little paler than usual, but his expression is surprisingly calm. Serene blue eyes lock on my silver ones. “I trust you.”

He really does, doesn’t he? My heart pounds in my chest. I don’t know if I’m feeling touched or guilty or something more. There is a lot of trust involved in letting a person shoot an apple off your head, but I know how good I am, and I’d never harm a single blond strand of that hair.

“Okay,” I say, almost derisively. And I give him one last look before turning and striding off to my intended distance.

I end up a little further away than the original 15-yard distance I spotted the tree from, which is nothing. I can hit a moving target from over twice that range, so this should be a snap. I see Peeta standing there tall and still, eyes locked on me. He’s not trembling a bit because the apple is balanced perfectly.

I pull out an arrow and nock it. Then I get into my stance and raise my bow.

“Last chance to back out,” I call.

“I’m not going to,” he calls back.

I nod my head and pull back the bowstring. I feel the sweet, perfect tension of it skimming my cheek. Peeta’s eyes remain open, watching me, waiting. I suck in a small breath and release it slowly through my lips as I always do before I shoot.

And then, I lower my bow.

I know I could’ve easily made the shot; I can envision it now, my arrow piercing the juicy flesh of the apple, possibly going straight through the core without touching a single golden piece atop that head, or perhaps slicing off just that one tiny hair that was sticking up with the tip of my arrow. But no, I’d never really take a shot at him, no matter what he did to torture me.

I pad back over to him, my bow tapping against my hip along the way. When I reach him, he hasn’t moved a bit. Maybe he’s frozen. I appraise him. His eyes are less dilated than before, and the color is coming back into his cheeks.

“You were really gonna let me shoot at you, weren’t you?”

“Well, uh, yeah. I figured you had a good reason for it.”

That’s kind of funny.

Not really, I think.

“But thanks for not following through.” He chuckles, jostling the apple a little.

I smirk. “Oh, did I scare you, big boy?” For some reason, I say it in a sultry manner; I don’t even recognize the voice coming out of me as I give him a slow, suggestive look up at down. Where did that come from? I wonder. I’m not a flirt.

This makes him laugh again, albeit more nervously, and this time the apple falls. I catch it.

“No, of course not,” he says. Not that he makes a habit of it‒and it’s always with good intentions‒but Peeta’s a talented liar. Still, I don’t believe him.

I shake my head and toss the apple aside. I’m not done tormenting him yet, so I place my palm against the tree alongside his head and lean in a little, this time, trapping him with my body. He sucks in a sharp breath, and I swear his eyes dart to my lips.

Oh.

Maybe…just maybe he feels something, too…

I want to kiss him, I realize. This is new. Yes, I reacted to our bodies being pressed up against each other, but that was hazier, more confusing. This is clearer, powerful. I feel as if I’m hungry for it. But I’m not going to kiss him here in the woods, out of the blue, after I just threatened to take a shot at him. Even if I was brave enough to just go for it, the moment doesn’t feel right.

Satisfied for the time being, I grin and pull back. “That’s for the little wrestling move you pulled last week,” I tell him. “Consider us even.”

And then, I go about setting up another target to prove to him I actually can hit the apple.


End file.
